Mirandy Oneshots
by Astratta
Summary: A collection of unrelated Mirandy oneshots
1. First Time

Author's Note

I keep having all of these disparate ideas for Mirandy, and I've finally decided to write them all down in a sort of catch-all collection, so these are just oneshots that don't necessarily tie into each other.

A few housekeeping notes:  
-Different oneshots will naturally rate differently, but I've marked the entire collection as mature just to cover my bases.  
-I'm marking this as complete because each chapter is a completed story, but I'll add to it when the mood strikes me.

* * *

It surprised her, their first time—in just about every possible way.

Miranda had never considered herself a particularly sexual being. Sure, she enjoyed sex when it was good, which it had mostly been with her first husband and had rarely been with her second. And she'd had a few lovers over the years who were particularly skilled, which she'd quite enjoyed at the time. But she did not crave sex often. Or so she'd thought.

Andrea had changed her mind, or, perhaps, changed her libido, or both.

"Taking things slow" had translated into months spent flirting, teasing, daring. For all that Andrea wanted to take her time, she never ceased to push the boundaries and leave little doubt in Miranda's mind that the sex, when they finally had it, would be phenomenal.

From the kisses they shared alone, she knew it would be fantastic. Andrea was forever surprising Miranda with the tone and tempo of these kisses, some so quick and light they left Miranda wondering if they'd even happened, some so unbearably long and soft it felt like they were making love without ever removing their clothes, and some so heated and demanding Miranda was left soaked and panting and _aching_ for the little vixen.

And oh, what a vixen she was. Andrea knew _precisely_ what she was doing _,_ and she was not afraid to torture them both, and often.

Miranda knew, _knew_ the brunette was just as aroused as she by these exchanges. Andrea's typically deep, chocolate irises would turn a near pitch black, gleaming and twinkling and teasing the editor. Her breath would quicken in time with Miranda's, her chest heaving where they pressed up against each other. Her cheeks would flush the subtlest, loveliest shade of pink—starkly different from the dusky blush Miranda could occasionally coax from her with a teasing jibe.

But the best signs, the ones Miranda only got when they were alone—or as alone as they could be with two teenagers in the house—those signs were the whimpers and gasps and moans Andrea made no effort to silence. They were the signs that made Miranda thank god the girls were, at this dreadful age, perpetually attached to their earbuds and that din they called music. And those sweet sounds were all the more scintillating once Miranda had realized—from bouts of mutually lost control in places that were unfortunately not free of teenage ears—that Andrea could silence herself when need be. Miranda wasn't sure which turned her on more: the maddening noises that spoke of exactly how much she affected Andrea or the strenuously suppressed breaths that told her how much it took Andrea to stay quiet. She was quite content to hear both as often as possible.

In any case, there had been a great deal of kissing, not that Miranda was complaining. Andrea had such skill and patience that these heady exchanges felt less like clumsy, horny make-out sessions—the likes of which Miranda had not deemed to engage in since she was a teenager—and more like extended, endless foreplay, with stops and starts and pauses for their daily lives, their jobs, the kids. Andrea, with her incessant flirtations, her quick, sexy wit, and her ability and will to go from zero to sixty and back again at any time, all the time, made the non-sex they'd been having for months feel like the longest love-making session Miranda had ever engaged in. And it made her want to claw at the walls, she was so sexually frustrated.

Until Andrea decided that it was time, out of nowhere at all.

She managed to surprise Miranda in that, after months of waiting, the editor had expected a picture-perfect first time, with romance and candles and dinner and slow, gentle, passionate love. With planning.

She was fairly certain Andrea had not planned—at least, not too far ahead—to take her on the chess table in her home library on a bleary autumn afternoon, with the door unlocked and the girls fully capable of coming in at any time, even if they hadn't deemed to set foot near a book outside of school in ages.

Miranda wasn't sure how she'd ended up perched on the chess table, with expensive, hand-carved chess pieces littering the hardwood floor around them. But no matter, because the board felt pleasantly cool against her bare bottom as she watched Andrea kneel before her, the brunette's ample breasts hanging out of her blouse where Miranda had unthinkingly ripped the buttons off. Errantly, she took in the simple nude bra encasing them—front clasp, she noted, though she did not have the mental acuity at the moment to reach down to do anything about it. She was far too preoccupied with not toppling the table when a pink tongue darted out to brush her clit, causing her to arch uncontrollably.

That was the only teasing Miranda was getting, apparently—if you didn't count the months leading up to this momentous event—because the next thing she knew, that tongue had plunged into her hot, aching core, doing sinfully wonderful things to inflame her swollen folds. It only took three plunges and a delicate brush of Andrea's nose against her clit for her to grab the brunette's head with both hands and jerk wildly, a loud moan of the brunette's name filling the room around them. It was more than she'd fantasized about—so much more, so much better.

And it was all the better when, before she'd even had a chance to catch her breath, Andrea suddenly climbed onto the tiny table with her, somehow managing to keep them steady as she straddled one of Miranda's thighs and ground down. The _heat_ that coated Miranda's thigh even as her inner walls continued to flutter and spasm around nothing was enough for her to come a second time, Andrea tumbling over the precipice with her on a strangled gasp.

Miranda recovered quicker the second time, and she had the presence of mind to wedge her hand between Andrea's slick heat and her own thigh, entering the brunette with three fingers and no preamble. She would wonder, later, at how easy it had been to engage in sex with a woman for the first time, at how, surprisingly, she'd felt no trepidation in that moment. But, those thoughts would come later. Now, she could only match Andrea's rough rhythm, still mostly caused by the uncontrolled jerks of her orgasm.

"Cu—Curl your fingers," Andrea commanded breathlessly.

Miranda was all too happy to oblige, and she knew she had the angle right when Andrea immediately came again, her thighs locking down so hard around Miranda's hand that the editor could only observe her ecstasy in awe.

They kissed sloppily as they came back down, Andrea slumping into Miranda contentedly.

When they did finally part, Andrea offered a satisfied grin—one Miranda returned wholeheartedly—and hopped off the table, padding over to the library bathroom in the far corner and pulling a blouse out of the chiffonier at the little bathroom entry. "I think I finally understand the point of this thing," she said, presumably eying the mirror on the dresser.

Miranda chuckled and padded over too, unfazed in her half-nude state, "Well, I certainly didn't put it there for post-coital clean-up, but, if it works…"

Andrea laughed, pulling a pair of black slacks out for Miranda. "I hate to cover your gleaming beauty up, but, knowing your kids, their spidey senses are already tingling, and we're just lucky they haven't already walked in screaming about being scarred for life."

They grinned at each other as they put themselves back together, all while Miranda planned their next rendezvous—hopefully it would involve a locked door and ample time behind it.


	2. Andy's Statement

I've been told, none too subtly by my publicist, that because I am a writer, I should—and by that I believe she means I must—write about the recent public revelation of my personal relationship.

Apparently being a journalist who specializes in writing about others should easily translate into being an autobiographer adept at writing about myself, so I've been given no particular direction as to what to write. That said, I've given some thought as to what I _could_ write.

I could, of course, attempt to defend my relationship from what many in my circle of family and friends view as vicious attacks against me and my partner. I could gush about the love of my life and the beautiful family we've come to share. I could bitch and whine about the unfairness of becoming overnight tabloid fodder. I could do any number of things.

I won't.

I have many things to say about my relationship, my intentions, her intentions, the laughable claims against us, etcetera, etcetera. But those will be uttered only to family and friends and, in moments of desperation—and we've all been there—to God.

The only thing I will say publicly about our relationship is that there are far more important things in the world than with whom she and I choose to spend our days. I will allow those of you who don't already recognize that to discover those things yourselves.

To quote Miranda, "That's all."


	3. Ex-Uncle

"Andrea. Why did you defend—better yet, how do you even know Irving?"

"It's, um…complicated?"

"Andrea."

"Right. Um. Irv's kind of my…ex-uncle?… His father-in-law was married to my grandmother for a few years…uh, until she remarried."

"Ex— He— Are you telling me your grandmother was married to Lincoln Ravitz?"

"Yeah—yes. Um, for a few years when I was a teenager."

"And you did not see fit to inform me?"

"I—well, uh…no?"

"…"

"I— I just— I mean, it's not like we're close or anything! He's not even my uncle anymore!"

"And yet you just defended him."

"From Stephen! Who, let me remind you, crashed our wedding! I mean, no offense, but he's an ass, Miranda. I don't know why you ever married him anyway."

"—Yes. Well. Ahem… NeitherdoI. But that is beside the point! I should accuse you of spying on me for Irving. And surely you should have told me when we began dating, or, at the very least, before our wedding."

"Oh my god, I was not spying! I mean, okay, look, Irv's…family. But that doesn't mean— I mean, we disagree on _everything_. We can barely even stand each other. But…you know. He's family. Ex-family. Whatever."

"You don't even get along?! For god's sake, Andrea, tell me, what do I have to look forward to after our honeymoon? A concerted effort to oust me backed not only by your _ex-uncle's_ hatred of _me_ but also his of _you?_ "

"What?! No! Of course not. Didn't you hear what I just— We're _family_ , Miranda. We may fundamentally disagree on everything from foreign policy to the cuteness of kittens, but we don't _hate_ each other."

"No, you just can't stand each other."

" _Yes!_ That's— Look, I can't stand Irv any more than you can, but I respect him, and he respects me. That's my point. He's not going to— We're _married_ for god's sake, Miranda! What did you think? Irv's been under a rock since we announced our engagement? He knows. He knows that you're ex-family now too. He's not going to hurt you."

"Oh my god. He— you— us, family?!"

"Ex-family."

"I— I need to— need to sit down."

"Hey Andy, thanks for that whole thing with Stephen. My god, he's an ass—no offense, Miranda. Congratulations on the wedding, by the way. You take care of my ex-niece, all right? And welcome to the ex-family!"

"…"

"Oh my god! Miranda, honey, are you okay?! I think you fainted for a second."

"Fi—fine. I feel a little…woozy. I thought for a moment Irving was your uncle…"

"Ex-uncle."

"Oh god. Is it too late to annul?"


	4. Long Nights

Miranda sighed quietly as she stepped into their darkened bedroom, standing for a moment in the doorway watching the rise and fall of Andrea's chest as she slept. She walked over to the bed, her heels muffled by the carpet, and sat, twisting to lean over and plant a kiss on Andrea's head.

Unconsciously, Andrea turned toward her, her dark locks flayed out on the pillow beneath her. Beautiful, Miranda thought. She was utterly beautiful.

Unwilling to step out even for a second to their closet, she stripped there, carelessly removing her Chanel suit and letting the expensive pieces fall to the ground. She didn't bother with pajamas—Andrea would offer no complaints if she slept nude the rest of their lives, she was sure. She rolled her eyes fondly and ran a finger gently over Andrea's face, placing another kiss on her cheek before reluctantly slipping into their master bath to perform her nightly ablutions.

She was just making her way back into the bedroom when a sleepy voice drifted over to her.

"Mira?" She watched Andrea blink foggily and glance at the time. "S'late. You're just getting in?" she asked, an adorable frown pulling her lips downward.

Miranda considered for a moment that if either of her ex-husbands had uttered those words, she'd immediately have been on the defensive. In fact, both marriages had ended over fights about her working too much. But Andrea's tone was sleepy and comforting, and Miranda knew she didn't mean anything by it.

"There was a ridiculous issue with the photo shoot," Miranda answered softly, not really wanting to rehash her interminably long day. She padded over and slipped, nude, into bed.

"Mm," Andrea murmured, immediately snuggling into Miranda and offering a sweet, warm kiss to her lips. "Did you eat? Do you want me to make you something?"

"No, darling," Miranda reassured, stealing a longer, hotter kiss.

"Ah. I can guess what you're hungry for," Andrea smirked, rolling on top of Miranda as the edges of sleep left her beaming brown eyes.

Apparently the journalist had gone to bed nude too, because the press of their hot, bare skin together made them both moan.

Miranda shifted so her thigh was pressed between the brunette's legs, earning another breathless moan. "God, Mir," Andrea murmured, shamelessly grinding down into the lovely friction.

She was wet. Wetter than Miranda had expected. "Darling, did you…before bed…?" Miranda uttered, her breaths suddenly coming in pants.

Andrea grinned down at her, increasing the speed of her hips and biting her lip at the increased pleasure. "I couldn't wait for you," she said. And then, wickedly, she leaned down to breathe into Miranda's ear, "But it didn't help. Only you can satisfy me, Mir." She paused for a moment to lick at the shell of Miranda's ear, undoubtedly smirking at the way Miranda shivered in response. "Touching myself only makes me hotter for you."

"You're too good at this for a 20-year-old," Miranda murmured, invoking a running joke between them.

"Twenty-four. And on the contrary, love," Andrea replied, licking at the sensitive spot just under Miranda's ear, "I'm perfect at this." She ground herself down more firmly, and Miranda took the cue to hold the brunette by her hips and guide her increasingly frantic movements.

"Come for me, darling."

It never ceased to amaze Miranda, watching Andrea orgasm. The majority of them were long, hot moans of some form of her name, but occasionally, it seemed that Andrea couldn't catch enough breath to manage even that, instead coming in a silent scream. Much as Miranda loved that Andrea nearly always had her name coming off her lips in the throes of passion, she was even more enamored of the silent times in which she knew words were not enough.

There didn't seem to be rhyme or reason to what differentiated the orgasms. So Miranda savored each quiet climax as it came.

This time, Andrea pulled her in for a long, hot kiss as she shuddered on Miranda's thigh, parting only to gasp for air and slump against the editor in a pleased daze.

But Miranda had other plans for her young lover.

She reached a hand down to squeeze between the journalist' legs and, without warning, thrust two fingers home, enjoying the surprised jolt Andrea offered in response.

"Oh god, Mira," Andrea moaned, gripping Miranda's shoulders to keep herself balanced as she let Miranda do all the work.

It only took a half dozen thrusts and a well-placed brush of her thumb against Andrea's sensitive clit to watch her tumble once more over the precipice, a loud and shameless "Mira" filling the darkened room as she did.

Miranda wrapped her free arm around the brunette's waist to keep her from falling over and wiggled her sticky fingers inside of her lover, watching with glee as the brunette recovered.

And then Andrea giggled and reached down between them to gently pull Miranda's fingers out, bringing them to her mouth to taste herself.

"You really are too good at this," Miranda noted wryly, studying the tongue that caressing the pads of her fingers.

"You won't be saying that in a minute," Andrea offered brightly, kissing Miranda thoroughly, allowing her a taste too. It made her moan.

"No, no," Miranda said, pushing the brunette away just enough to get the words out. "None of that. It's late, and we both have an early morning tomorrow."

"I get the distinct feeling you won't take long," Andrea murmured against her neck, teasing her and lashing her with that hot tongue, earning an unwilling groan.

"No," Miranda admitted breathlessly. "But if you start, I won't want to stop either."

Andrea paused, sighed, and pulled back. "I really hate these long nights."

Miranda had no arguments there. Though, in another time, with another partner, she would have felt very different. Not with Andrea though. Never with Andrea. "It's just a little longer to print, darling," she murmured, gathering the brunette into her arms and holding her tightly.

She felt more than saw the journalist smile at that.

"Mm. I know."

That was the sleepy sort of hum Miranda knew meant they were done talking for the night.

"Sleep now, darling," she said, rolling Andrea over to her side of the bed.

She received another hum in response as the brunette snuggled into her, and the journalist leaned closer to share a long, languid, lazy kiss with her before settling in and dozing off with all of her usual record-setting speed.

Just a little while longer, Miranda thought, stroking brunette hair. Things would be okay.


	5. The Erasure of Time

Miranda stared at the girl as if seeing her for the first time, yet her ice blue eyes did not determine anything different. The same chocolate irises, the same chestnut hair, the same beautiful face. Nothing had changed, but something had.

It took a long moment to gather her voice, and, even then, it came out gruff and croaky, like more time had passed than she'd thought. "What are you?"

She watched her second assistant sigh.

"There isn't a name for what I am," Andrea answered eventually.

"But you're not human."

"I'm not sure about that. We live, we die, like humans and all things."

Miranda pursed her lips and admitted, slowly, "I don't understand."

Andrea shook her head and smiled sadly. "Neither do I. But I understand more now, I think."

"You're speaking in riddles."

"My…kind. We…erase time, you could say. Empty time—the time between thinking you should do something and eventually doing it, or the time spent binge watching reality television, or the time between sleeping and waking."

That…was not what Miranda had expected at all. "You consume time?"

"Not exactly. It's not sustenance. We don't feed on time—I mean," she tried at some levity, "You must know there isn't enough time at _Runway_ to fatten me up this much."

"Andrea," Miranda blanched, "I should not have—"

Andrea's doe eyes went wide. "No, no," she blurted, "I don't mean to— I don't care about that anymore. I just meant— No, we don't consume time. It's not…voluntary that way, exactly. I mean, we don't _choose_ to erase time. We just do."

"I…I still don't understand any of this, Andrea. You erase time, and you cannot help but erase time?"

"Yes. But no. We can't help but erase time, but we only erase the time around us. It's like… My friends, my boyfriend, my parents, they all thought I was crazy for staying here with you, with _Runway._ But… I didn't know before… how… how wonderful time can be. Because before, there was just _so much_ time. Except, I erased it all, you see? There was so much time, but I took it all away, and then there was so little _stuff—_ and don't get mad at me for using that word—left over. And then I came here, and I met you, and then there was so little time, ever, for anything. I was always busy, and Emily was always busy, and you were always busy. And it was, is, _wonderful._ Because there's so little that gets erased, you see? And I could enjoy the _stuff_ —life, I guess you could call it. So I liked it—like it—more than before. But…my friends don't understand. They keep saying they want me to quit and slow down. But it's— I don't know. Maybe this doesn't make any sense. Maybe I don't make any sense."

Miranda watched the girl, trying to follow what she said, and then she watched the girl slump in despair, and she couldn't help but feel her sorrow. "I think perhaps it does make sense," she murmured, and Andrea's gaze shot back up, hope in her eyes. "My mother always said, 'Don't waste any time, because there's so little of it.' I think, perhaps, you are the embodiment of that maxim."

"I— I don't—" Andrea still looked flustered. "I don't erase all time," she tried to explain. "I mean, just empty time. And!" she cut off whatever Miranda had been about to say, "Not all idle time is empty time. Like…like silence in the middle of a conversation. It's idle but not empty. And time spent thinking hard about something, that's not empty either. And sleep! Everyone in this city seems to think sleeping is a waste of time. But it isn't. It's not— it's not a waste. I— It's not," she faltered, seeming on the verge of tears.

Miranda's gaze softened, and she smiled as she reached out for Andrea's nervous hands, stilling them. "Andrea," she chuckled, "As much as I like coffee, I would never think sleep is a waste of time."

Andrea blinked rapidly, and the tears went away as she stared down at their joined hands. "Oh."

Suddenly, Miranda realized she didn't need to see the difference. It was enough just to know there was one. "Come along, Andrea. The girls and dinner are waiting at home. Let's not spend all of our time talking about time."


	6. Retirement

"So how's Mom doing with the retirement?"

"I thought she said she talked to you yesterday. Did she seem upset?"

"No, but you know Mom. She'd never let me or Cass know anything was wrong. How's she really doing, Andy? Is it as bad as when Cass and I left for college?"

"You mean when she was threatening to move to New Haven every five minutes and I had to resort to hiding her own car keys from her? No, thank god. She's just, you know, trying out different hobbies—regular retirement stuff."

"Mom? Hobbies? Seriously, Andy?"

"Well, Nigel thought it would just be _hilarious_ to give her a whittling kit. That was… Well, miracle of miracles, she still has all ten fingers. I don't think poor Fiddy Cent will ever be the same again though."

"50 Cent? The rapper?"

"No, silly. Fiddy Cent, our fiddle-leaf fig."

"You named the fiddle-leaf fig after a rapper?"

"Well, they've both been through a lot, Care."

"O…kay… Wait. She tried to whittle the houseplant?"

"Of course not. She tried to whittle the wood that came in the kit. Then she got frustrated, and, she _claims,_ the knife just went flying... But! Everything's okay, because the blade got lodged in there real good, and she decided whittling was stupid."

"Uh…"

"Then she said she'd try gardening, which, frankly, seemed a little ironic after the whole 'not stabbing' incident. But I wasn't about to tell your mother that. So she started with the little herb garden Loretta—you know, our new housekeeper—kept, and then she got Loretta to write down the watering schedule for the houseplants for her—as if Fiddy hadn't already been through enough—and then I got her one of those little terrariums, with the cute little cacti. I thought, surely she can't kill cacti. But… Anyway. Unfortunately, the cacti—Tie-dye, Thai-food, and Taekwondo—are no longer with us, but Fiddy's still hanging in there."

"Oh… Good?"

"Then she decided gardening wasn't worth her time and tried taking up the trombone. I won't tell you what an assault that was on my ears. I threatened to take Fiddy and move in with Irv, and you know how your mother can't stand your ex-great uncle, so that put an end to that."

"You threatened to move in with _Irv_?! I thought you couldn't stand him either?"

"Yeah, well, I love your mother, but between her trombone playing and Irv, I'd choose Irv. Although, I think he may have had something to do with the end of the trombone trauma. We ran into him at a charity event, and I might have brought up moving in with him. The next day, your mother's trombone had somehow been welded shut, and I got a note from Irv saying you're welcome."

"Huh."

"Yeah. Anyway, I'm just getting home now, and who knows what your mother will have waiting for me. I'll talk to you soon, honey. Give Cass a big hug from me. I love you both."

"Sure, Andy. Don't let Mom destroy the house. Or any more plants. Love you too."

—

"Mir? I'm home."

"I'm in the kitchen, darling."

"Oh, dear."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing. Um, what's…all of this, honey?"

"Oh, I decided to try a new hobby."

"…Involving…an array of toppings?"

"Oh yes."

"Um, what—"

"I've decided to stick to what I'm best at."

"Honey… The last time you cooked, our microwave imploded."

"Not what I had in mind, and that microwave was faulty."

"It was brand spanking new and cost a veritable fortune!"

"Speaking of spanking… Let's start with the chocolate syrup and work our way up."

"Huh?"

"Get on the table. I want you on all fours."

"O—oh!"


	7. Better Than Runway

It had been a ridiculously long day, and it still wasn't over yet—not by a long shot—when Andy finally made it downstairs. She could hear Nigel and Emily's whispers rapidly devolving into yelling as she approached, and it wearied her all the more.

She slipped into the study and, in that quiet, clear, authoritative tone she'd picked up from Miranda over the years, demanded they stop. "I just got Miranda and the baby to sleep, and you'd better not wake them."

They had both cried themselves to sleep—Miranda because she'd lost something that might as well have been a fourth child to her and Callie because she missed her mommy, as Miranda was usually the one who put her to bed.

It had been draining on them, and it had been draining on Andy.

"How is she?" Serena asked quietly, sympathetically.

"Sad," was all Andy could say—any more, and she'd go off the deep end. As it were, she needed a deep, fortifying breath before she could speak again. "I don't know what to tell you all. I can't say we didn't have an inkling this would happen, but I certainly didn't expect it so soon."

"Well, what's the plan?" Emily demanded, pacing the floor. "What are we going to do? What does she want us to do?"

It was sort of sweet.

"I don't think she has one, Em. Not now, anyway." That was true, for now. But later… Andy ran a hand over her face, pulling at it like the whole situation was pulling at her. "Look, she needs time." Time to mourn, time to fume, time to recover. "But after… After, she's going to come back with a vengeance, and she's going to hurt _Runway_ in the process." And that would hurt her, immeasurably. But it would have to be done, and Andy would just have to carry her through it. "You all know about The List. Start updating it now. The sooner we know who's coming with her and who isn't, the sooner we can get all of our ducks in a row." There were so many things that would need to be done. So many things. Including… "I'm going to call Lawrence tomorrow, tell him to sell all of our shares of Elias-Clark. We won't be needing them in the future." Miranda wouldn't go back to _Runway_ , not even if the board begged—and Andy predicted they would. It was a pride thing, which Andy could understand, and it was also a defensive thing, which Andy understood even better. There was no going back now, not to those who'd hurt her, them.

"Andy…" Nigel's tone was kind and cautionary, and Andy thought she knew what would come next. "Between you and Miranda, that's twelve percent of Elias-Clark's outstanding shares. The stock has already dropped eighteen points today. You're talking about losing a lot of money."

Ah. Yes. She'd thought of that, too. While she'd rocked her wife and baby to sleep, she'd thought about every possible scenario and every possible response, and this could not be avoided. "We're going to lose money either way. Elias-Clark will go down the tubes without Miranda _._ Better to get out now than when it hits rock bottom. And." She held up a hand to cut off his next statement. "It will wound them, and the sooner we do that, the better." For fashion-world politics, yes, but also for Miranda.

For Miranda, Andy would make sure Elias-Clark went six feet under.

"What about us?" Serena asked gently.

"You three and everyone else who is loyal to Miranda will have jobs waiting wherever she ends up. Everyone else... Well." Andy sighed, thinking about what the next several years would be like. "It will be hard at first, getting something new off the ground. We'll need all hands on deck, and the hours will be even worse than they are now."

"I'm in," Emily announced suddenly. "Tell me where to sign, what to do, what she needs."

Andy grinned tiredly. "Good. Keep that energy going. We're going to need it. For now, just compile an updated List. We need to know who's with us and who isn't. Everything else can wait until Miranda's ready."

She got three resolute nods, three grim but determined faces, and, not for the first time, she was very glad for the three of them, not only for her sake but for Miranda's.

"Thank you," she said, softer and sweeter than she'd allowed herself to be with them all day. That earned her three grins, which she found herself returning. "Go home. Get some sleep. You'll be the first people we call when we get the ball rolling."

A chorus of goodbyes followed, and then Andy was alone, climbing back up the stairs. She checked on Callie, who was sleeping soundly, and figured she had a little more than four hours before she'd have to feed the baby.

She climbed into bed, where Miranda, still asleep, immediately curled into her neck. She seemed so delicate and vulnerable and precious, and Andy's heart ached a little as she wrapped her arms around her wife and brought them even closer.

Callie was young enough that she wouldn't remember this time. Caro and Cassie wouldn't be back from their father's for another two weeks. Andy would let Miranda mourn the loss of _Runway_ until then. And then she would help Miranda put her life back together.

They were in for long days and short nights and endless amounts of work and stress for the foreseeable future, but Andy loved Miranda, and Miranda loved fashion, so they would do this, and it would be hard, and it would be exhausting, and it would be better than _Runway_.


	8. After Runway

A/N: A sequel to "Better than Runway" that turned out very differently from how I first imagined it.

* * *

The first week is unbearably difficult on all of them, but they manage.

All Miranda wants to do is cry and sleep, so Andy brings her meals in bed and cajoles her into eating; she spirits Callie, who seems to pick up on Miranda's somber mood, over to her mother for sleepy, tearful cuddles; and she coaxes Miranda into the shower once a day, where they inevitably make slow, sorrowful love.

Andy is almost sick with worry, but she doesn't press.

—

Halfway through the second week, Miranda can manage to drag herself out of bed again, but Andy still finds her holding Callie and crying all over the house.

Still, it's better than before, so Andy is hopeful.

The day the twins are set to return, Andy wakes to find Miranda sitting at the foot of the bed, bottle feeding their baby girl. Andy feels warm and tender as she watches the two of them.

"Things will be all right," Miranda murmurs unexpectedly.

Andy thinks she's talking to Callie, but then blue eyes, empty of tears for the first time in two weeks, meet hers, and Miranda continues, "I can live without _Runway._ "

Yes. She can. But Andy isn't stupid, so she waits patiently for more, and several minutes later, she is rewarded.

"It's better this way. I can stay home with Calliope."

Andy blinks several times at her wife and daughter, and it seems very, very important what her response will be. So she says, softly and slowly as she crawls over to wrap her arms around Miranda from behind and brush her nose against a warm, dry cheek, "If you want to, you should."

—

Nine months fly by. Andy moves upward within the _Mirror_ , Caro's soccer team wins championships, Cassie's ballet studio hires her to help teach the younger kids, and Callie learns to walk and talk.

Andy hasn't seen or heard Miranda cry since those first two weeks, but she's still concerned, as are Nigel, Emily, and Serena, who swing by the townhouse weekly for Sunday brunch and busy themselves during the weekdays with networking on Miranda's behalf, taking Elias-Clark down piece by piece, and shoring up The List while their fearless leader recovers.

All the while, none of them speak a word about _Runway_ or Elias-Clark or even fashion, because twenty-five years of tending tirelessly to the magazine won't disappear overnight. So they talk about politics and movies and how best to get red wine out of carpet, and Andy pushes her worries to the back of her mind and tries to stay in the moment, because it's a happy nine months, really.

Andy is just switching the lights off in Callie's room when Miranda voices, "What do you think about another baby?"

She flicks the switch for the night light and studies Miranda, whose focus is on their little girl's angelic face. This moment feels strangely like she's swaying on the edge of a cliff, so she stays silent and tries to regain her balance.

"I know neither of us wants to carry another one. But we could adopt." She ever so gently brushes a strand of brown hair from Callie's face and meets Andy's eyes. "It would be nice for her to have a sibling her own age."

Andy takes Miranda's hand, rubbing her thumb over the warm palm. "Yes," she says after a beat, "That would be nice."

—

Two years later, the kids are all hitting huge milestones at the same time, and Andy and Miranda are just trying to keep up. Caro is going off to California as an intended poli sci major at UC Berkeley. Cass is heading for Paris, taking a gap year to travel and perform with her dance troupe. And Callie and Alex are about to start preschool.

Andy thinks the townhouse will seem awfully empty when the kids are gone.

She successfully made the leap into freelancing when they adopted Alex—part of it was that leaving Miranda alone all day with two toddlers seemed cruel and unusual, and part of it was that Andy could hardly string a sentence together at the office, she longed so much for their little family.

So she grew accustomed to being home.

But change is upon them, and Andy isn't sure any of them are ready for it.

Cass leaves first, and it's unbelievably painful to watch her go. There are hugs and tears all around for several days leading up to her flight, and Callie refuses to let Cass out of arms' reach for any length of time while Alex makes a run after his sister through the airport security gate. Andy and Miranda each extract a promise to be extra careful and to call any time for anything, and then they watch their eldest leave, and it feels harder than anything Andy has ever done before.

Caro is next, and it isn't any easier the second time around. They manage to move all of her things into her tiny dorm room, and, when it's time to leave, Callie and Alex are inconsolable. They cry and cry and cry, so they all stay in Berkeley for another three days, filling their time with the Bay Area sights. Ultimately, they bid Caro goodbye—not without extracting promises from her as well—and manage to get the little ones back to New York with a minimum of half a dozen tantrums between SFO and JFK.

And then, for weeks leading up to their first day of preschool, Andy worries that Callie and Alex are going to be the kids who will cry and cry and cry, and neither Andy nor Miranda will be able to let them go.

It isn't until the day is upon them that Andy starts to worry that Callie and Alex, who can hardly contain their excitement long enough to have breakfast, will instead be the kids who don't look back at their moms at all.

They settle at a healthy midpoint. Neither Callie nor Alex cries, but they both hug Andy and Miranda for a few extra seconds and make doubly sure their mothers will be back to pick them up before they toddle away, holding hands and turning back to wave at the door.

It doesn't really hit Andy until they return to the empty townhouse that their kids are really growing up, and soon enough, Callie and Alex will be going off to college too, and then it will just be Andy and Miranda.

It's a strange thought.

But suddenly Miranda presses her up against a wall, and they rechristen every room in the house—other than the kids' rooms—like they're newlyweds again.

Several hours later, lying sweaty and sated in their bed, Andy hears the words she's been expecting for nearly three years.

"Maybe I should start working again."

But there's no real weight to the words, no heavy undertone or underlying sadness. It's just a statement, an option among a sea of others. She could just as well have said maybe she should take a spinning class or maybe she should learn to knit.

It occurs to Andy then. Maybe this period of stay-at-home mothering isn't just a passing phase, an intermission between _Runway_ and the next Thing.

"What would you do?" she asks, turning to face her wife, whose silver hair is matted to her orgasm-reddened face and whose blue eyes sparkle at her.

There's no seriousness to Andy's words either. They're just talking.

—

Five years later, Caro and Cass, who both wound up transferring to Yale, are graduating at the same time—Caro as a super-senior statistics and Italian double major and Cass as an American lit major. They're both returning to New York—Caro with an actuarial firm and Cass with three years of grad school ahead of her.

Callie and Alex, who are just finishing third grade, could not be more ecstatic, and, frankly, neither could Andy and Miranda.

Andy's first novel was nominated for (and lost) the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and Miranda's most recent designs, which Nigel, Emily, and Serena ran in their special, twenty-fifth issue of _Grace_ , have garnered praise throughout the fashion world. But neither of their accomplishments engenders as much pride in them as their daughters' graduations.

When they gather their extended family and friends at the townhouse a few days later to celebrate, Andy catches Miranda's eye and grins. "We did good," she says, looking around the room and spotting each of their four children interacting with the guests.

"We did," Miranda agrees, winding an arm around her wife and planting a kiss on her cheek.


	9. Moving

Andy stared at the boxes piled around her. The movers would be there soon.

"You're all set?" Miranda asked awkwardly, stepping into the living room.

"Yeah. Um, are you— I left a couple casseroles in the freezer… In case you get hungry."

"Oh. Right. Thank you."

An uncomfortable silence descended on them, and Andy wished suddenly that the twins weren't in college, just so they could be there to fill it.

"You've found a new place?" Miranda asked, though they both knew she already knew the answer.

"Yeah. I, uh, put the address on the fridge. If you need it."

"Oh. Good. Um… Good."

"It's not too far. Still the Upper East Side. I thought— It would be easier for the girls, when they're home."

"Yes. Yes, of course. It— The girls will appreciate it."

Andy turned to the back window and sighed under her breath.

"Do you—"

She whirled back around, almost knocking Miranda over.

It took them a moment to regain equilibrium.

"Do I…?"

"Never mind. It's stupid."

Andy blinked. "Well, tell me anyway."

"I just—" Miranda sighed, looked away, and then met Andy's eyes again. "Do you still love me? Because I—" She paused for a second, and Andy blinked again. "I still love you."

"Miranda," Andy breathed.

"No. No. It was stupid to ask. It doesn't matter anyway."

"I do."

"What?"

"Of course I still love you, Miranda. We've been married for eleven years. I— Of course I do."

"Oh."

"I wish—" And it was Andy's turn to pause. "I'm sorry."

Miranda huffed a breath through her nose—a sign of amusement. "Me too," she said softly.

"It's not for lack of love," Andy grinned suddenly.

"No," Miranda agreed, smiling back. "I've always loved you. A great deal." She reached over to fix Andy's collar, letting her hands linger over Andy's sternum.

"And I you," Andy answered, feeling the warmth of those hands seep into her. She brought her hands up to her wife's waist, pressing her gently into a hug.

Miranda relaxed into her chest. It was the closest they'd been in a long time.

They pulled apart eventually.

"You have enough money?" Miranda inquired, the tension between them gone. "I put more into our joint account yesterday."

"Yeah. I'm good." Andy brushed a lock of silver from Miranda's eyes. "You have enough food?"

"I _can_ feed myself," Miranda laughed.

"Eleven years proves otherwise."

"So I'll hire a new cook. I'll be fine."

"Yeah," Andy breathed. "Me too."

"You'll call if you need anything? I mean it. Anything at all," Miranda said firmly.

"I promise if you do," Andy hedged.

"Of course I do. Don't be silly. I wouldn't know who else to call."

"Good."

"Good."

The doorbell rang.

"That'll be the movers."

"Don't call if you need help moving. I don't do boxes," Miranda half-joked.

Andy laughed, wrapped her wife—she doubted they would ever legally divorce—into another hug, and went to get the door.


	10. Flowers

She'd loved them, the flowers. The first had been a single red tulip on the vanity in her executive restroom. The included sticky note had been pale red and heart-shaped, and it had said "I hope this makes you smile."

She had.

Every day thereafter, there had been a new note and a new flower—on her desk, in a drawer, in her purse, in the town car, in a package delivered to the office. Tulips and roses and lilies, sure, but also daisies and sunflowers and gardenias, of all colors and shapes and sizes. They'd made her slow down, made her snap out of her busy work life and remember that someone cared about her, loved her.

She loved the flowers. She loved Andrea.

She hadn't meant to bring it up at all, but they'd been fighting, and she'd felt unfairly attacked. Somewhere in the thick of it, she'd said something foolish. But she'd said other things too—they both had—and she'd forgotten about that particular statement as quickly as she'd said it. They'd spent a few nights sleeping in different rooms, but they'd made up—they always did.

They'd exchanged apologies, reached a compromise, and that had been that.

Miranda had noticed, of course, that the flowers had stopped appearing. But it had seemed natural then that they shouldn't, because they had still been in the middle of fighting. And after they'd made up, she'd chalked it up to the end of their abnormally long honeymoon period.

It wasn't until months later that she got a clue. During a photo shoot in Central Park, she caught Emily speaking to some woman in a forest green apron rather than doing her job.

Emily apologized profusely, proclaimed her love for her job adamantly, and explained that the woman was a florist—someone had bought a flower from her shop and asked her to give it to someone who needed it. Not that she needed a flower, of course, because she didn't. She absolutely didn't. She was very happy with her job. She didn't need a stupid little flower.

And then Miranda spotted it, the sticky note—a pale red heart. She plucked it from Emily's hands before the assistant could even blink, frowned at the familiar handwriting on it, and stewed for the rest of the disastrous day.

At home, flower and note in hand, she demanded to know why her fiancee was sending her assistant flowers and love notes.

She got a confused expression in response, and then a nervous one. "I know you said they're stupid… I just… I couldn't stop buying them. And I thought— I thought it would be better to give them to other people, rather than just, um, letting them die. But, I mean, I never met anyone that got them. I just… Beth, at the shop, she gave them out for me. Just to… to make someone smile, I guess."

Miranda watched as Andrea wilted, and then she looked down at the bright little daisy in her hand and realized she was a fool, a complete fool.

She exchanged the daisy and heart for the leather-bound journal on her nightstand and handed it to Andrea. "Here. The ones nearer the end are better. It took some time to get the process right—pressing flowers is harder than you'd think."

"…You…"

"I'm a fool. I'm sorry. But I love you. And I love your flowers. So I kept them."

She watched carefully as Andrea flipped through the book, and she basked in the slow-growing smile that appeared on her face.


	11. Pain

**A/N:** I couldn't quite decide if I wanted this to be a standard F/F sex scene or if I wanted to throw in some GP!Miranda, so I left it ambiguous. You may interpret as you wish, of course.

* * *

Andy grimaced at the clock beside her. It had been over an hour and a half, and pleasure had turned to pain long ago, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

Not for the first time that night, she choked out something between a cry and a laugh at the thought of how much a masochist she was.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks over dried ones, and she slipped her tongue out to taste their salt as she sped her fingers. They burned where they dragged against her, and she involuntarily clenched down on them again, tightening until she could hardly move and then pulling a finger out for the extra room and beginning her thrusts anew.

Flashes of Miranda burned at her eyes—the elegant slope of her neck, the tantalizing swell of her breasts, the fire forever burning in her eyes. It was unbelievably arousing. And yet, Andy couldn't bring herself to end her suffering.

She wasn't sure if she was grateful or mournful that she couldn't come without touching her clit, but she also wasn't sure it would make much difference anyway. In all likelihood, she would have found another way to torture herself.

She slipped her pinkie back inside, inhaling silently each time she pulled out completely, and panting sharply each time she rammed back in. Painful pangs wracked her body, but she liked hearing the staccato beat of her breaths mixed with the slick squelches from her thrusts.

She let Miranda dance behind her eyelids as she listened.

Fifteen minutes had elapsed when she finally glanced at the clock again and switched tactics, forcing her fingers in deep and rubbing the pads brutally against her walls. The extra burning it caused was almost but not quite pleasurable, and it made her body shake with sobs she couldn't control.

That was fine. She didn't want control. She wanted Miranda.

She'd run into Christian Thompson earlier in all his smarmy glory. He'd slipped in a few less than subtle barbs he'd never have tried had Miranda been present, and then he'd had the gall to lean in and kiss her. It'd hardly been a peck—Emily had immediately grabbed him by the back of the collar and practically drop kicked him out of the party—but he'd tasted nauseatingly of oil and alcohol, and she'd imagined a film of grease coating her lips afterward.

That unctuous feeling hadn't left even after she'd washed all her makeup off and taken a scalding shower, so she'd lain herself down, dug into her mental cache of Miranda, and rubbed herself to a furiously unsatisfying orgasm, useful only in lubricating everything enough to abuse herself to this point.

She growled at the memory and switched from rubbing back to thrusting.

She didn't hear Miranda step into their bedroom over the roar of blood pounding through her skull, but she watched, preening as she took in Miranda's surprise, and then her fast dilating pupils and rapidly quickening breaths.

Despite her obvious arousal, Miranda's voice cut sharply through the air—"Stop."

Andy whimpered, and obeyed.

"What did I say about fucking yourself?" Miranda asked, stalking toward the bed.

Andy trembled. "You said I'm not allowed to, Mistress."

"Correct," Miranda snarled, knocking Andy's hands out of the away. "And yet, here you are, red and wet and swollen. You've been at it for hours, haven't you?"

"Y—yes, Mistress. I couldn't help myself, Mistress."

"You couldn't help yourself." Miranda grinned dangerously. "I will just have to remind you who this body belongs to."

Andy keened at the anticipation alone. "Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress."

Miranda flipped her over roughly and rammed inside of her suddenly, making Andy see spots at the sharp pain it caused.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Miranda taunted. "And you love it."

Andy sobbed out her agreement, met Miranda's harsh rhythm eagerly, and moaned at the hot breath on her ear. Her thighs quivered with the effort it took not to scream, and it took several minutes for her lungs to gather enough breath to beg, "Please, Mistress. Please."

"Please what? Please fuck you faster?" she asked, accelerating. "Or harder?" she laughed, brutally making it so. "Or maybe you want it deeper," she suggested, angling them so it was.

Andy's mind reeled with the changes, but she wanted them. Needed them. Matched them in equal measure and reveled in the pain they caused.

"Please what, darling?" Miranda demanded, turning Andy's head to look into her eyes.

Andy couldn't gather enough breath to answer, though she already knew what would happen as a result.

"'Please fuck me into tomorrow, Mistress?' Hmm? Is that it? Is that what you want? To be fucked so hard you won't be able to sit for a week? Is that what you want?" She chuckled darkly when Andy only moaned in response and then, as Andy had known she would, pulled out completely, leaving Andy shaking and aching and anxious for more. "Or is it 'please stop, Mistress?' Is that it?"

"N—no, Mistress," Andy whimpered, fruitlessly thrusting back against nothing. "Please don't stop, Mistress. Please let me come, Mistress."

"Ah. Well. All you had to do was ask. That's all." Her tone was perilously sweet as she slid back in—slowly, too slowly. So slowly Andy could feel each agonizing millimeter stretch and burn and ache. "Better, darling?"

Andy shivered at the honeyed words. "M—more. Faster. Please, Mistress."

"You really should be clearer, darling," Miranda teased, obeying for once as she pulled Andy up into a kneeling position and drove into her with wild abandon.

Andy wasn't sure if she was swaying or if the room was spinning, but she didn't care either. Every brain cell she had was concentrated on the fiery friction between her legs and the acute agony of each thrust.

It was vicious. It was exquisite.

She gave in. Surrendered herself to carnality, to _Miranda._ She was Miranda's. They both knew it. And it was euphoric to bask in that knowledge, to have it driven so deeply into her.

She was only dimly aware that some unmeasurable time later, Miranda brushed a single finger over her clit, and she came, shuddering and screaming and almost knocking them both off the bed.

And then Miranda was lying beside her, nude for the first time all night, soothing her into sleep with sweetness and the promise of more wickedly pleasurable pain later.


	12. Flying

**Summary** **:** Witchcraft and humor.

* * *

God, she missed it. There was simply nothing like flying free with the birds—well, the owls and bats. Not that they'd really fly with her anyway, but that was beside the point.

The cool night air against her cheeks, the bright lights of the city she'd come to call home, the magic coursing through her veins—flying was nothing less than exhilarating. And she was sure it would be all the more so because she'd gone so long without it.

Not that she was complaining—not at all! She loved Miranda, Cassidy, and Caroline. It was just that, well, with the recent increase in sleepovers at the townhouse, she'd had to forgo flying _far_ too much for her liking.

Cassidy and Caroline had only recently gotten over the habit of crawling into their bed after a nightmare. Apparently Cassidy had been "like, _seriously_ scarred for _life_ " when she'd waltzed in unannounced on a night that Miranda had declared sleep wholly unnecessary when she could, instead, discover how many orgasms Andy could take before she died of pleasure.

Andy'd've been mortified at being caught, but she'd climaxed right when Cassidy had walked in. Plus, it had taught the girls the invaluable lesson of knocking before entering. So that was one problem solved.

But the other problem remained: Miranda was a light sleeper. Such a light sleeper, in fact, that, after the first few nights they'd spent together, during which Miranda had apparently tried to put up with Andy's light—light!—snoring and had run herself—and by extension everyone at _Runway—_ ragged, Andy had found her buried under a pile of blankets in the guest bedroom with the A/C on high in the middle of winter just for the white noise.

Of course, Miranda had not admitted a thing, so Andy had just barely refrained from rolling her eyes and had since incorporated a Snore-Away™ potion into her nightly ablutions. They hadn't spoken a word about it, but, after that first peaceful night, Miranda had thanked her thoroughly without words.

Nonetheless, the issue of Miranda the Ridiculously Light Sleeper had not gone away completely. Any time Andy got up in the middle of the night—whether for the bathroom or a glass of water or to try to sneak in a quick fly-by of Central Park, Miranda inevitably woke up. And Andy was left desperate for flight.

Mentioning—not complaining about!—the issue to Doug and Lilly hadn't helped any. They'd laughed at her supposed plight and told her to just cast a deafening charm on Miranda and sneak out.

But she'd looked into it a little, and the Spell and Potion Administration's list of common side effects for Incantamentum Inauritus made Andy's head spin. She just imagined stammering her way through a half-assed explanation of why Miranda was going to be fuchsia from head to kneecap for exactly 37 hours and 16 minutes after the whole thing went wrong…

So no deafening charms.

She'd resigned herself to seizing the rare opportunities that came her way—namely, the nights that she managed to exhaust Miranda enough to knock her out (rather than the other way around, which Andy unashamedly admitted was far more frequently the case.)

At any rate, tonight was one of those precious nights. Miranda was out like a light by the time Andy was finished with her, Andy was still floating on the high of fantastic sex, and the night sky was clear and cool and perfect for flying.

So of course she'd run into a little hitch in her plan.

Why Miranda didn't seem to own a broom was beyond Andy. Miranda, of course, outsourced such tedious chores as sweeping, but she should at least have the tools in her house. Or so Andy thought.

She _had_ found something else though… And it _did_ function the same. Even if it was _highly_ undignified. But she could practically _feel_ the breeze running through her hair and the _freedom_ and _magic_ of flying. Screw it. She _so_ didn't care about dignity.

But…

"There you are. What on earth are you doing up here?"

Andy whirled around, eyes wide in alarm and mortification. "Uh— um— nothing!"

"Darling," Miranda said, brows furrowed, "You really don't have to Swiffer the roof. Let alone at three o'clock in the morning. Come back to bed."

"Uh. Right. Yes. Of course! Sorry."

So maybe she'd try the deafening charm.


	13. Teenagers

"This is so unfair! I hate you!"

Ten months ago, those words might have hurt. Today, Andy just continues reading her newspaper. "Love you too, Caro. Now go change. That skirt couldn't fit a toddler, and no daughter of mine is walking around with half her _assets_ hanging out."

"Mom! Come on! It's what everyone's wearing!"

Andy hears Miranda's long-suffering sigh before, "I spend half my day determining fashion, darling. I can assure you, whatever it is you're wearing—I won't suffer to call it a skirt—is _not_ what 'everyone is wearing.'"

"Ha! Told you they wouldn't go for it, doofus. Besides, you look like a try-hard hooker."

"Language, Cassidy. Caroline, either you march back upstairs and change into appropriate clothing, or I will bring back 90's fashion, and 'everyone' can drown in clothing three sizes too large."

"Ugh! Fine!" is followed by clattering silverware and loud stomping up the stairs, followed resoundingly with the slam of a door.

It's enough din to make Andy cringe as she sets her paper down. "Maybe we should install a runner on the stairs."

"And have them track mud onto it after soccer practice? No, thank you."

Cassidy shoots up, wide-eyed, from where she's just finished inhaling a stack of pancakes. "Hey! I'm right here you know!"

"Don't speak with your mouth full" is pretty much automatic as Miranda slips her glasses off, giving up on deciphering the ridiculously tiny print on her phone. "And can you say anything in your defense?"

Cassidy thinks it over a moment, then shrugs, gulps down the rest of her OJ, and grins. "At least I don't dress like a stripper?"

"If that's the best you can come up with…" Andy rolls her eyes. "Go check on your sister, will you? You have five minutes before Roy gets here."

"Ugh. Fine. But why am I always the babysitter?"

Andy waits until she disappears to groan, "Dear god, your offspring are going to be the death of us both."

"At least Cassidy couldn't be heard from China going up the stairs. Besides, nature versus nurture, darling. I take credit for their sharp minds and gorgeous looks. The rest is half your fault and half their father's."

"Oh, how kind of you to blame both of us. At least James and I aren't in this alone."

"That's the spirit, darling."

"MOM! ANDY! CAN I GO TO BECCA'S AFTER SCHOOL? WE HAVE A PROJECT."

"And whose fault is that shrieking?" Andy grimaces, "I need to know who to sue for the thousands it'll take to fix my shattered eardrums."

"You can blame James. He had no sense of volume control before I trained him. Every utterance boomed in my ears. It was simply intolerable."

"And you married him because…?"

Miranda waves her off. "He took to my lessons quite well." Then she sighs. "Answer her with the intercom, will you? Or she won't stop."

"I don't understand why neither of them can push a damn button… Yes, Cassidy, you can go to Becca's. But text if you're going to miss dinner."

"COOL! THANKS."

"Oh, for pete's— I take it the girls haven't taken to your lessons quite as well?"

"Well, neither have you, so that, my dear, is your fault." Miranda smirks, then frowns. "Damn. Am I cooking tonight? I have that dinner with Nigel. We've already rescheduled three times. I can't put him off again."

"I don't know whether to be flattered or offended…" Andy mutters. "So tell him to come over. It's Nigel. Besides, Caro's bound to go with Cass to Becca's. Maybe if we get lucky, Nigel'll be called away on some _Men's Runway_ emergency, and we can have the place to ourselves for once."

"Fine…" Then, casually, "You know, there was a time when 'having the place to ourselves' would have me eager for you all day."

Andy grins. "Well, maybe if you're lucky, I'll put out tonight."

"Ha! I'll count myself lucky if we just manage an hour of sweet, sweet silence. Somehow they're worse as teenagers than they were as infants, which is really saying something."

"Not that I don't agree," Andy says, managing a fake pout, "But I'm just going to pretend that you said, 'Yes, baby! I'm dying to taste you. I can hardly wait for dinner!'"

"Keep dreaming, darling."

"Fine. But, for your information, I'm wearing the black lingerie set you love. The lace scratches my nipples every time I move, and the panties are torn and frayed from when you peeled them off of me with your teeth—it's like wearing a constant reminder of _you._ "

"I… Darling…"

Footsteps come pounding down the stairs. "Mom! Andy! We're leaving!"

"Not so fast, Caro! Get your hopefully clothed tush in here."

"Ugh! It's like I can't be trusted!"

"Yeah, because saying things like 'it's like I can't be trusted' makes you _sooo_ trustworthy, doofus."

A glance toward dilated pupils shows Miranda can't manage to scold their youngest for her language.

"You're fine, Caro. Go on, both of you. Don't keep Roy waiting."

"Can I go with Cass to Becca's after school?"

"Yes. And you can both miss dinner, too. But your homework had better be done when you get home."

"Yeah, yeah. Bye, Moms." "Yeah. Bye!"

Andy cringes again as they leave. "We could at least reinforce the doors if they're going to insist on slamming them even when not in full-on angst mode."

"Yes, yes, whatever you want, darling. Tell me more about this lace."

"Oh, so you _are_ interested in getting lucky. Well, too bad, lover. I'm _so_ not putting out tonight."

"We'll see about that. Come here."

"Mira! You'll ruin your make up."

"I don't care. Come here!"

"We have to… go to… work. Oh…"


	14. Wrong

Miranda isn't entirely sure how the hell they made it to her guest room. Though she does know that she is about to do something sinful, so she sure as hell isn't going to do it in her marital bed.

Andrea is soft beneath her fingers, giving in a way that Miranda has never experienced. Her breaths are coming in pants, and her head is tilted, offering up the smooth expanse of her neck to Miranda's soft kisses, wet licks. Miranda has her backed up against the door, has half a mind to pull back, ask if this is okay. She is incredibly aware of how _wrong_ this is.

But Andrea's fingers are sure as they unbutton her blouse, as they slip beneath the straps of her bra, as they pull aside her clothing. Andrea's voice is clear when she commands, "Off," and tugs at Miranda's trousers.

They tumble into bed gloriously naked, and for the first time in at least a decade, Miranda is confident in her body, despite the vast age difference between them.

Andrea's chocolate irises are mere rings, her pupils blown wide, her gaze half-lidded and appreciative. She licks at the stretch marks on Miranda's belly, noses down the unruly patch of white hair between her thighs, inhales the scent of her sharply, and dives in.

Miranda doesn't restrain herself. She curls her fingers roughly in brown hair, holds that tongue against her viciously. Andrea, far from complaining, chuckles against her clit and licks her through her orgasm until Miranda is just about to pull her away, she is so unbearably sensitive.

But Andrea just dips farther down, laps up the little gush of come she's coaxed out, cleans her lips with her tongue, and kisses Miranda's thighs before she comes up, pausing to tongue at her belly button and nip at the underside of her breasts. She kisses Miranda languidly, lets her entire body serve to tether Miranda to the bed, is perfectly content to play with Miranda's hair as she recovers.

And just when Miranda has caught her breath and intends to flip them over, Andrea rolls off her to plant bare feet onto carpet.

Intellectually, it is undeniably a rejection. Emotionally, it doesn't feel like one.

"Just a second," Andrea says, like she knows exactly what Miranda is thinking. She pads over to the mini fridge, pulls out a water bottle, and tosses it at Miranda. "Hydrate." Miranda cracks open the plastic and does, watching Andrea pad over to their discarded clothes and pick through until she's located Miranda's coat. She checks one pocket and then the other, finally coming up with Miranda's Blackberry, which she tosses onto the bed. "Messages," she says, then finds her own phone. "Life, then sex."

She climbs back onto the bed and steals the half-finished bottle from Miranda, who groans.

"Fuck life," Miranda mutters, though she grabs her phone as Andrea chuckles around the bottle. "Oh, for god's sake. I've only been gone two hours." She frowns at the half-dozen missed calls from Nigel and has already hit dial before she thinks perhaps she shouldn't.

Andrea quickly finishes sending off a text and waves off Miranda's look. She finishes the water bottle, chucks it into the bin, and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door only enough not to be seen.

"Miranda!" Nigel's harried voice startles her.

What happened to hellos?

She half-listens to Nigel's complaints and is mildly surprised to find she takes no issue with the fact that she can hear Andrea peeing.

Nigel is droning on animatedly about some grave problem. Andrea is humming as she washes her hands.

She returns to the bedroom with a damp washcloth, smirking at the mumbled grousing Miranda didn't even realize she was doing. She's still humming as she swipes gently over Miranda's groin.

Miranda's not entirely sure what the point is—she's immediately wet again at the tenderness of it. And it's obvious that Andrea notices, because she chuckles when Miranda feels heat trickling out of her.

Perhaps Andrea realizes the futility of the cloth too, because she throws it back into the bathroom—somehow makes a perfect shot into the sink.

She turns back to Miranda, her eyes even darker than before, and grabs Miranda's free hand. She closes it into a fist and pulls her index and middle finger back out. It's a second before Miranda realizes what her intention is, and then Andrea is sinking onto her fingers, hot and wet and so, so soft.

Miranda's gaze jumps back and forth between Andrea's face, showcasing her pleasure, and her own fingers, sliding in and out of pink, puffy lips.

Andrea sets a slow, deep pace, sighs contentedly with every thrust. Miranda is suddenly not listening to Nigel at all.

Andrea is holding her wrist in place, so Miranda can do nothing but curl her fingers slightly and watch, enraptured, as Andrea uses her for her own pleasure. It doesn't take long for Andrea to come, jerking involuntarily on Miranda's fingers, lips locked in a perfect, silent O.

She's breathtaking.

Miranda drops the phone and swiftly pulls Andrea down into a sloppy kiss, causing them both to fall back onto the bed none too gently.

Andrea pulls away too quickly, gasping for breath, and Miranda punishes her need for air with a sharp nip to her collar bone. It's extremely satisfying that this causes Andrea's breath to stutter.

"You like it rough, hmm?" Miranda smirks.

"Dunno," Andrea manages between pants, "Never had it rough before."

Miranda's brain pauses for a second—it would be all too easy to get lost in the fact that this is _wrong_. But Andrea has said it so plainly, so guilelessly. "Want to try?" Miranda offers.

Andrea laughs. "Can I catch my breath first?"

Miranda doesn't bother to say no. She tosses her phone—finally silent of Nigel's whining—back into the pile of clothes and flips them over, gathering Andrea's wrists above her head, pinning them down. "Don't move."

It's a matter of seconds to grab a silk scarf from her overflow closet.

"Okay?" she asks once she's straddling Andrea's thighs again, scarf taut between her hands.

Andrea bites her lip around a moan, nods quickly, sharply, lifts her wrists enough to help Miranda along.

This is unthinkably _worse_ than wrong, Miranda realizes, gazing down at the pliant, open body at her mercy.

But she shrugs internally, takes a hard nipple between her teeth, and bites down, adding pressure until Andrea's hips buck up against her. She makes an uncalculated, haphazard design of bruises and teeth marks along Andrea's smooth torso, careful not to leave anything that won't be covered in clothes later. Andrea bucks and pants and moans beneath her as she presses her nails sharply into skin, hard enough to leave little half-moon crescents.

By the time she is satisfied with her handiwork, Andrea is begging for relief.

She slips her hand around Andrea's neck, squeezes hard enough to cut off the moans, realizes she may have made a grave error almost immediately as Andrea struggles against her, eyes wide.

She pulls back instantly, and they stare at each other for a terrifying moment. _So wrong_ , Miranda thinks.

And then, Andrea croaks, "Again."

Miranda is petrified. But she does it again, hard as before. She can see the fear in those brown eyes, the tension in the body beneath her. But Andrea doesn't struggle.

Miranda counts in her head. One to ten, relaxes her hold enough for Andrea to take a breath, grips again. Andrea melts into the bed, relaxes entirely, gazes up at Miranda with so much trust it takes Miranda's breath away.

They repeat this several times. Ten counts, one breath, ten counts, one breath.

And then, Andrea spends an allowed breath to demand, "Inside," and Miranda grins.

She thrusts three fingers in with no trouble, sets a brutal rhythm, shortens her count to seven. She makes damned sure Andrea comes at the start of a new count, watches greedily as the body beneath hers shudders for those seven seconds and then collapses onto the bed, spent.

She smirks as tremors continue to run through Andrea's body and peppers soft kisses over Andrea's bruised breasts.

Eventually, when things have calmed, Andrea chuckles, "Rough. Yes."

Miranda grins, and they both fall into a fit of laughter. When they sober, Miranda rolls onto the other side of the bed, coaxes Andrea up enough to pull the sheets over them. They settle facing each other, not quite touching, and doze off.

When Miranda awakens, day has turned to night.

She takes in the way the moonlight peeks in around the curtains to illuminate a sliver of Andrea's peaceful face. She feels no sense of time, has no idea how long she's been gazing when Andrea stirs, lazily blinking sleep away.

Intellectually, Miranda knows they have much to discuss. Emotionally, she knows that nothing has really changed.

"It would be awesome," Andrea hedges, "If you'd get me water."

Miranda rolls her eyes, rolls off the bed, and tosses a new, cold bottle at Andrea's prone form. Of course, Andrea catches it effortlessly, gulping of it furiously as Miranda slips back into bed.

"Share," Miranda says, stealing the bottle when it's half-drunken.

She sips while Andrea stretches, the sliver of moonlight highlighting the bruises covering her stomach.

Andrea reads her mind: "Gonna be sore for days."

Miranda grins. "Good."

"You're quite the sadist. Although I suppose most people would guess that about you."

Miranda shrugs. She doesn't care what most people think. "You're quite the masochist. You really didn't know?"

"I've had fantasies. Never a partner to try with."

"Hmm."

"Mm." Andrea yawns wide.

Miranda rolls her eyes. This girl could hibernate an entire winter and wake up still sleepy. "I swear you have a problem."

"Nuh uh," Andrea argues, stifling a second yawn. "It's just a fucking wonder that you aren't more tired all the time."

"Discipline. You should try some."

"Nope."

Andrea burrows back into the sheets and reaches over to drape Miranda's arm over her stomach.

Miranda sighs and obligingly slides closer.


End file.
